


One Red-Letter Day

by sidneybelveire



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, I mean it's implied as a pairing, M/M, nothing is really explicit, really very short, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:55:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3949666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidneybelveire/pseuds/sidneybelveire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil wants his day to be over, already, but it's not likely to happen. (Or is it?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Red-Letter Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ralkana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/gifts).



> At some point, Ralkana had a terrible, horrible, no-good very bad day and needed cheering up. I attempted a bit of a ficlet to cheer her up, and it went into her tumblr inbox to much applause and I never really got around to posting it to a larger audience. But I figured I could do it now that enough time has passed that I've stopped gnashing my teeth at it.
> 
> Here, being released into the wild, is my first ever writing attempt, for Ralkana and for anyone having an absolute shit day.
> 
> (Title is from the Scissor Sisters' song, Baby Come Home)

It is three in the afternoon on the longest day in existence, subjectively, when Phil returns from pouring himself a cup of mediocre coffee he should absolutely not be having any more of, and he pauses to check his watch while surreptitiously surveying his very nice office, which seems completely normal—for SHIELD office spaces anyway—and his very nice desk, also seemingly normal except for the nearly invisible traces of dust on his monitor, his keyboard and his windowsill.

Phil is not as sharp eyed as some field agents he is absolutely not worrying about during work hours, not when they are still without an ETA, but he is not new to this secret-agent lark. He can see the dust specks; his window is open for that reason, late afternoon sunlight causing a glimmer on the swirling motes in the air. 

There is also the matter of the neatly laid-out form in his outbox—non-existent prior to this last run for meager coffee and the hope of donuts, of which there were none. 

Phil sips his coffee, and it is slightly less horrible, but he is less good than he remembers, if the smell of donuts and new coffee at this hour failed to raise his suspicions. Possibly he is just tired. 

The form has his less-crisp-than-usual signature, and underneath that, a timestamp for exactly nine minutes from what his watch reveals to be the current time with another glance. 

The form is an after-action report on the very effective deployment of unsupervised emergency protocols for unexplained…detonations…Phil turns around, finishing his coffee in a long swig to hide a twitch of his lips from the view of any vents in the nearby vicinity, but he suspects he is fully alone at this point. 

It is three-thirty in the afternoon on what he hopes will continue to be the longest day in existence, when Phil runs a soft hand over Lola’s hood before getting in, and driving, sharp sunlight on his face as he hums tunelessly to the radio. 

He wonders if other people give flowers, instead of explosions that lead to being ordered out of the building by men in hazmats with instructions to not come in until Monday; then he stops for donuts and glances at his watch. There’s time for reservations to a nice restaurant, but he figures that maybe takeout for dinner is just as good; that maybe his apartment will already have the menus out on his counter, grease-stained smudges too large to be his own on the edges. 

He got powdered donuts this time, without giving it much thought, and none of the dust gets on his suit, although the rearview mirror tells him there is probably some on his mouth, at the corner. 

Small victories, he thinks.


End file.
